The Case of the Black Pearl (25 page)

Chapayev was studying him with undisguised hostility. Had Patrick been in the Russian’s shoes he would, at this moment, be considering how much pleasure he would get from disposing of Patrick, and how easy that would be.

No one had seen him brought here. He could be killed and dumped at sea or buried in the garden of the villa. The chances were his body would never be found, or would be washed up in another jurisdiction far from Cannes.

‘I also told Lieutenant Moreaux that you were blackmailing Camille Ager,’ Patrick added for good measure.

‘You have been busy.’ Chapayev gave a small, unpleasant smile. ‘I think it’s time we retired you.’

Chapayev turned on his heel.

‘I should have left you down there to feed the fish,’ Patrick called after him.

‘You will soon wish you had.’

It was a war of words Patrick could never win, but it felt good to try.

The door slammed shut behind Chapayev and silence fell. A heavy brooding silence, filled with malice. Korskof’s hatred advanced before him in waves. Patrick felt it beat against his body, a warning of the physical abuse that was yet to come.

Korskof stripped off the smart suit jacket, then the pristine shirt, to reveal his upper body, which was almost completely covered with tattoos. Patrick recognized a few of them, especially the Russian prison tattoos. Korskof had been a busy man in his youth.

The tattoos didn’t bother Patrick. He had his own scars, not tattooed on his chest, but in his mind and his heart, and he didn’t wear them as a badge of honour.

Patrick said this now in Russian, challenging Korskof to fight him, man to man, with honour. Hitting a tied-up man, Patrick said, was like hitting a woman, or a child. That was the work of a coward.

Sensing a slight change in the Russian’s demeanour, he kept at it.

‘No man fights like a woman,’ he said, using some of the derogatory words the Russian had spat at him earlier. ‘Kill me like a man.’

Maybe he had hit a nerve, or maybe Korskof just fancied some fun. After all, Patrick didn’t look much of an opponent. He could barely stand and had already taken a fair beating. Or maybe the Russian fancied a longer match than he would get with Patrick sitting down and tied up.

There wasn’t much fun in pummelling a corpse.

Korskof came over and, going round behind Patrick, cut his bindings.

‘Get up,’ the Russian ordered.

Patrick gave his legs the same command and waited for them to obey. Finally they did.

Korskof kicked the chair away, just as Patrick’s body considered making use of it again. The Russian was circling him, licking his lips, planning his first move. Patrick continued to play the injured soldier. He
was
injured, but he was now free and he intended staying that way.

The room was small – bare apart from a table in one corner and the south-facing window. The patch of blue sky was still there, under which would be a glistening sea. Patrick imagined dropping into that water, how good it would feel against his hot seared skin, how peaceful and quiet it would be below the surface.

The Russian, growing impatient, was coming at him, bellowing like a bull.

Patrick sidestepped him so quickly he hardly noticed the move himself. His body had been hammered, but his instinct and reflexes still worked. The move buzzed his brain cells, sending them into quick-fire motion. He felt a surge of something. Adrenaline, fury, hate. What he couldn’t achieve with his body, he would have to do with his brain.

The Russian came at him again, his weight as much a hindrance as an advantage. Patrick took up a stance and kicked. His right foot met Korskof directly in the groin. The impact was as unexpected as the movement. Korskof bent over in shock and instant agony.

Patrick quickly swivelled and kicked again, reaching high between the legs, but this time from the back. The Russian went down, groaning, but he wouldn’t be down for long.

Patrick grasped the thick neck between his hands. He had a moment in which to break it and he didn’t hesitate. Quickly releasing the head one way, he snapped it back the other. The Russian’s body relaxed, collapsing outwards and downwards like a pool of water. There was no blood, or outward evidence of death, but it was there in that room, all the same.

Patrick made for the door, his left leg suddenly dragging. If he was challenged now, he had nothing left to give. On the other side of the door, all was quiet. He crept down the stairs, still shoeless and silent.

The carpeted stairs were even better. He paused at the bottom, listening for sounds from the villa, but heard nothing, apart from the quiet tick of an ornamental clock. He had a choice now. Exit on to the terrace and try to reach the road or sea from there, or make his way into the basement from whence he’d come.

The choice wasn’t good either way, but a need to get into water as quickly as possible made him make for the basement stairs. Fairly certain now that Korskof had been left to deal with him alone, Patrick emerged into a cave hewn from the red Estérel rock. The motor boat he’d heard arrive as he’d been bundled up the stairs was no longer there.

Three carved stone steps led into the water. Patrick stripped down to his shorts and lowered himself in. The water felt icily cold against his skin. This, he decided, was what heaven would be like.

The strength that had helped him fight Korskof, and got him down the stairs, drained from him now. He floated, and with the slightest of efforts, helped the water take him. Outside, the brightness of the sun was blinding. He glanced about, recognizing the distant craggy outline of the golden island where the Swede had lost his life.

Patrick flipped on to his back and lay weightless, staring up at the blue sky, trying to reinhabit his body and his mind, while knowing he had reawakened a part of him that he’d hoped to vanquish.

C
ontaining Courvoisier would always be a problem, should he be alive and remain in Cannes, Moreaux mused as the police car wound its way up to the scene of the ‘accident’. He did not like usurpers on his patch, but Moreaux had to admit that Le Limier had proved useful on occasion, plus the inhabitants of Le Suquet had grown to accept him.

He had therefore no wish to see Courvoisier dead.

As regards Chapayev, he was definitely the outsider, and one who thought his money could buy just about everything. The Russian needed to be shown his place, and soon.

The
Heavenly Princess
had been located anchored off Monaco. Moreaux’s sources told him that Chapayev had gone there in search of Angele Valette, and no doubt the pearl. It appeared obvious to Moreaux that the Russian didn’t know when to cut his losses.

Camille Ager’s recent statement had given him enough ground to detain the Russian for blackmail and suspected diamond smuggling. That would involve bringing the
Heavenly Princess
into port; a tricky and expensive business, which would alert his superiors to what had been going on under his watch. The murder of a beautiful woman during the film festival had been unfortunate, bringing the press down on Cannes, giving the world the impression that Moreaux’s city was not a safe place to visit, even during the biggest movie festival in the world. The Swede’s death had been declared accidental, and since he’d been implicated in Marie Clermand’s murder, that case was now closed, but it still left a bad taste.

Moreaux extracted a cheroot, lit it and took a long draw, exhaling his anger and distaste at the latest episode in the story – Courvoisier’s car found in the hills west of Cannes, bullet riddled, its owner missing. Chapayev, he decided, had gone too far this time, and must pay the price. The next thing he knew the papers would be talking about Russian gangsters taking over Cannes.

It was time to reassert his authority, but in a manner that deflected both the attention of his superiors and of the media, and which removed Chapayev from under his feet.

By the time the police car had reached the spot where the Ferrari had been found, Moreaux had formulated the beginnings of a plan.

He made his way carefully down through the rocks towards the red shape that had been Courvoisier’s pride and joy. Moreaux had admired the car on a number of occasions and felt anger at its destruction, but he was more enraged at the thought that whoever had done this should imagine they could get away with it.

Speaking with the forensic team currently examining the vehicle, Moreaux learned that there were no bloodstains present inside the car, and therefore it was unlikely that anyone had been in the Ferrari when it had been fired on, or when it had gone over the edge. Moreaux allowed himself a small smile at that news, because it suggested to him that Courvoisier was alive, at least two to three hours ago.

Whether that was now the case was another matter.

Moreaux made his way back to the road. From that vantage point he could see the swathe of searching officers strung out along the slope below. If Courvoisier had escaped, where would he have headed? The hills were filled with places to hide. Caves, deep and numerous, peppered the red rock.

Le Limier knew these mountains well. If he’d escaped his attackers he would be currently making his way back to civilization and a mobile signal. Alternatively, he’d been caught, or disposed of somewhere close by. Moreaux didn’t see them carting Courvoisier’s remains too far, so they’d be located soon, if they were here.

The area where the car had gone over the edge had been cordoned off. A couple of forensics were studying the area in detail, lifting tyre impressions, photographing and taking samples. A discussion with one of them, a woman, revealed that the evidence suggested the Ferrari had been shoved off the road by something bigger.

‘A truck?’ Moreaux suggested.

‘More likely a big black car by the paint scrapings we’ve recovered. The tyre tracks are fairly distinctive, so we should be able to match for model.’

So, whoever had come for Courvoisier had been a little careless with the traces they’d left behind. Still, if Brigitte hadn’t spotted Korskof leaving the graveyard, they would never have been looking for Courvoisier in the first place. As Chevalier had said, Le Limier liked to work alone and wasn’t in the habit of revealing where he was going, or for what purpose.

‘We have also located drops of blood, on the gravel close to the tyre tracks,’ she added.

‘Which means?’ he asked curtly.

‘Someone was hurt, but not while they were in the Ferrari.’

Moreaux silently wished that it was Courvoisier who had been the one to inflict the damage.

Back in his car, he ordered the driver to take him to Cannes, specifically to the Vieux Port. It was time to take another look at
Les Trois Soeurs.

Once on the main road, a mobile signal appeared and his phone started ringing. The first call was from Brigitte. It wasn’t a habit of hers to contact him, under any circumstances, and certainly not on this number. Because of this Moreaux answered immediately.

Brigitte’s voice was strained when she spoke.

‘Have you found Courvoisier?’

Moreaux wasn’t keen to divulge information and certainly not news that would upset Brigitte further.

‘We’re looking for him, but he isn’t a man who chooses to be found, when that suits him.’

There was a short pause. ‘What of Korskof?’ Brigitte’s voice cracked on the name.

‘He hasn’t been seen,’ Moreaux said, which was true.

‘I remembered something. I think Chapayev has a villa west of the Île d’Or. He rang once from there, demanding an escort one night to have dinner with him.’ Brigitte hesitated. ‘I didn’t like his tone, so I told him all the girls were engaged.’

Moreaux asked if she remembered the name of the villa.

There was a short silence, while she tried. ‘Les Sylphides, I think.’

As soon as she rang off, Moreaux used his mobile to do a search on the name. Three possibilities came up, two of which were termed ‘luxury’ and one ‘exclusive’. The exclusive one was on a rocky promontory, with a jetty. It sat just east of the Île d’Or.

Had Moreaux been a man prone to exhibit joy, he would have cheered. Instead he gave curt instructions to the driver to turn the car and head west.

P
atrick was swimming, or at least attempting to. Fortunately the current was flowing in the direction he wanted to go. Had it been otherwise, he would never have made it this far.

He had stopped periodically to float, when the willpower and energy to continue had deserted him. On at least two such occasions, he’d suddenly come to, as his mouth filled with water, having sunk below the surface in a stupor.

But he was almost there, he told himself. The tower on the Île d’Or was getting closer; the rocks on which it stood were reddened by the setting sun. He was aware that by making for Jean Paul’s place he was placing his friend in danger again, but promised himself that he would spend so little time there that it wouldn’t pose a problem.

Rounding the final rocky headland, he spotted the pebble beach of the camp site and the patch of sand that lay beyond it. Not trusting his left leg enough to try walking across the stones, he made for the sand instead. Floating as far inshore as possible, Patrick then attempted to stand.

As he hauled his body from the cushioning water, the feeling of weightlessness evaporated and was replaced by pain, so shocking that he groaned out loud. Forcing his feet to move, he staggered up the beach.

Patrick was relieved to find the restaurant terrace deserted. In the failing light it might not be obvious what state he was in, but he had no wish to scare any visitors Jean Paul might have. Having negotiated the beach, he tackled the two flights of wooden steps that led to the restaurant. Fortunately Jean Paul had provided a rail.

Now out of the water, his body had taken to excessive shivering in the cool night air, which made his ascent even trickier. Had he not felt so bad, Patrick might have laughed at the image he presented. Relief at being alive and being here compensated for everything.

A peel of laughter came from the kitchen. Jean Paul was relating a story which Joanne found amusing. Patrick, not wishing to walk in on that scene, sat down abruptly at one of the outside tables.